


a dream of you and me

by BelieveMePlease



Series: a dream of you and me [1]
Category: Rugby RPF, Rugby Union RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-10-11 09:28:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20543888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BelieveMePlease/pseuds/BelieveMePlease
Summary: "Tell me about the future."“Hmm?”“Our future. Tell me how things are going to be.”





	a dream of you and me

"Tell me about the future."

"Hmm?"

The hum comes low, quiet, breathed against his neck. Arms tighten in their hold around his waist, fingers coming into a loose grip as they squeeze at the barest remains of fattened flesh just above his hips. George brings his own hands up to cover them, thumbs grazing over knuckles as they relax once more. He exhales, soft, contented, and pushes back ever so gently into the firmness behind him. Ever-present, safe and warm.

"Our future," George whispers. "Tell me how things are going to be."

Behind him, Owen sighs, the cold tip of a nose rubbing side to side against the warm skin at the back of George's neck. George shudders at the chill, at the huff of air breathed into his spine synced in perfect tandem with the steady heave of the chest at his back, the cardinal thump beating inside the protection of the cavern.

"How many times have I told you before?" Owen asks, the threatening tease of laughter teetering in the fringes of his hushed words.

Perhaps George should blush, should be embarrassed over a request he's made on more occasions than are countable. He's not, doesn't think he ever could be.

"Tell me again," he insists, as adamant as he can manage through tentative quietness.

From beneath the crack under the door, the dim yellow light of the hallway seeps into the room, illuminating the sound of Gabriel's soft cries where the baby is lulled back to sleep mere feet away from their haven. It's a grounding reminder of just where they are, to the fragility of a bubble George wishes they could seal securely.

"Well," Owen begins, lips closing into a final kiss, chaste against the boundary of George's hairline, before he settles into his compliance to the request. "Next year we'll win the Junior World Championship, every game. You'll score the winning try, that I'll've set up so precisely for you. I'll make this incredible line break and go flying toward the try line and everyone'll be thinking 'wow this kid's in for sure - should've been a winger, missed his calling,' until this last defender comes charging right at me. It won't matter though, because you'll be right there, just like you always are, and I'll offload to you at the last second - won't even need to look. And that'll be it - the Championship will be ours and everyone'll be raving about this amazing fly half and the even more amazing centre who makes him look good."

George snorts, biting his lip to quell the sound. His elbow daggers out behind him in search of sensitive ribs to inflict his punishment. "And after that?" He prompts on further despite the action, not deterred in the slightest by words implying a suave arrogance George knows is entirely put on.

"Then we're going to play for England," Owen tells him, as though it's the most certain of facts. "Proper like, senior England squad. All the big fellers will have been so impressed with our magnificent junior displays that they'll be begging us to make our debuts before we're even home."

"Yeah?" George queries for assurance, unsure, unable to follow blindly into Owen's faultless confidence no matter how much he might want to.

"Yeah," Owen asserts, arms squeezing tighter, pulling George impossibly closer and abating the insecurities before they have the chance to fully form. "Just you wait and see. We're going to win countless Six Nations, you and me. Gonna win Grand Slam after Grand Slam, and even years later everyone'll still be banging on about how good we are together, how well we link up - and we'll just be thinking 'if only they knew.'"

George's eyes flutter closed, sinking into Owen's words as he lets his mind wonder, allows his imagination to conjure images in the darkness.

"And one day they will - one day everyone's gonna know that you're mine," Owen goes on, nails grazing over the cotton of George's pyjama top, the blunt infliction causing the shiver it intends as his territory is firmly marked.

"How's that?" George asks, a smile creeping into his cheeks as he battles with the quirk in the corner of his lips. The idea, the thought of the world knowing and judging what they have, it's terrifying. But George can't help the way he _wants_, yearns for it to be known that Owen belongs only with him.

"Because I'm gonna marry you," Owen shifts one hand, turns it until they're palm to palm, fingers entwining as he speaks. "Proper marry you, as well, none of this civil stuff - because it's not far off, Georgie, I can tell."

"And then - when we can - we're going to have it all, everything we want. We'll get that big house in the country you've always wanted, and you'll spend half your life trying to keep it clean and nagging at me when I make a mess."

Tipping his head back, George lets his head fall into the solidity of Owen's shoulder, uncaring for the exposure of his smile as his mind drifts on with an image he longs for.

"We'll get a couple of dogs that we can take on all those long country walks you love, and we'll have a big garden they can run around, too, and I'll get a load of plants for it that I'll probably forget to water. And babies."

"Babies?" George questions, eyes opening to flit up towards Owen. His smile wavers into something softer when he catches sight of him, look far off towards the window. In his chest something starts to spread, warm and aching.

"Yeah, babies," Owen grins as he reiterates, meeting George's eyes with his own. "We'll have a whole bunch."

"And how are we going to manage that exactly?" George asks, incredulous through his happiness.

Owen shrugs, the movement hauling both their upper halves with it where they're plastered close. "I don't care," he says, as matter of fact as ever. "As long as we get to - together. As long as we get to have a family, I don't care how."

George shakes his head, amused in expression despite the butterflies brooding in his stomach at the notion, at every notion Owen puts forward. Sweat slick from their shared warmth, he squeezes their fingers tighter.

"Is there really going to be time for those amazing England careers of ours if we have all of that to think about?" George knows the answer, the question used only to tease edges of his own contentment further, to fulfil a satisfaction already bursting its brim.

"Of course there will," Owen insists. "We're gonna be captain."

"Both of us?" George laughs. Trust Owen to think up such an idea, so impossible in its desirability.

"Both of us," the nod comes assured and pronounced, forehead bumping with the crown of George's head. Owen pauses there for a second, breath slowing to deep inhalations where his nose remains pressed into George's hair. When he speaks again, the words are muffled by the obstruction, but to George they are as lucid as ever. "One day, Georgie, you and I are gonna be captain. We're gonna lead a team of the best players England has to offer. We're going to win every tournament, every cup there is to win. And then we're gonna win the World Cup, and we're gonna lift the trophy up together, and I'm gonna kiss you right there underneath it for everyone to see."

George shudders in the hold that is unrelenting around him, shivers at a promise he's heard a hundred times before.

In the hallway, the light still burns on. Meters away, baby Gabriel's cries ebb ever nearer to the brinks of sleep.

Perhaps it's just too long a ways off. Perhaps it's nothing more than a shot in the dark. Perhaps it's not.

"One day," George whispers, a promise of his own.

"One day," Owen confirms.

_One day. _


End file.
